The Workshop Space

Song: Want Some More x Nicki Minaj (Feat. Jeremih)

I love workshop. Even when I was leaving my first intermediate workshop (nonfiction) and feeling as if I'd been bullied every afternoon, I still loved it. Even when a story I put my heart into and lost hours of sleep and life working on wasn't chosen to be workshopped, I still loved it. And throughout the several breakdowns workshop has led me to, be it crying and feeling worthless on campus, or holding back tears when my professor asks "are you okay?" after a bad workshop, I have still loved it.

I think Justin Torres said it best at a Q&A at the Sigma Tau Delta 2014 convention. He said that going into workshop with a piece was "throwing it to the wolves" and honestly, it is. In workshop, you take a piece of writing (that you have worked and revised and poured your soul into) and give it to several people, hoping they will like it and return with great critique on how to further your piece. Wouldn't that be great, but that's not real life. And if that's how your workshops are - all pretty and fluffed - then you should ask for your money back because everything can be revised and made better.

The workshop is a "safe space" in that whatever needs to be said about a piece can be said and that's where it stays. Actually, I take it back, I don't like the idea of a "safe space" because it seems unfair - only some people are ever safe in a "safe space" anyways. People have said wild things to me in past workshops, once someone implied that only poor, black girls think about getting abortions, another time, someone told me their parents were married and lived together, so they couldn't understand my family dynamic, and I've had so many people remain silent and give me no critique whatsoever. And all of those people have privileges I don't and they used them to their advantage in workshop to get out of giving me relevant and/or helpful critique. That's cool, but see how the workshop is not a place I feel "safe"? The workshop can be a hostile environment, it can be full of disagreement, it can be made up of students who refuse to try and understand, it can make you angry, it can make you cry, it can make you think that art is not for you. If you can't handle any of these potential issues, then maybe you shouldn't be in a workshop environment. If you can't handle critique or questions or ponderings, then maybe you shouldn't be in a workshop.  Maybe. But remember that you're there to get feedback and critique from your peers, you don't have to listen to what everyone is saying. I've said things and watched a lot of writers put their pens down while I speak, frown, lock their jaws, and not write down my commentary. That's cool, do you, it's your work, not mine.

Fight for your art by taking it into workshop. What happens in that room, what happens on that page, stays in the room, stays on the page. Don't be petty and take things outside of workshop. If you're going to call yourself an artist then Critique should be your worst enemy and best friend. Don't let your workshop think you're afraid or let them know that they hurt your feelings. Write down whatever is said (or don't) and take that piece of paper home and dissect it for important things to change, compare it to the hard copies, see how it differs from the workshop letters. Don't go into workshop and say "I like it, the language is great!" Okay, yeah, I knew that because I wrote and revised it before bringing here...what needs work, what can be cut or changed, what's doing too much?

I had two workshops this semester, and before now, I've been in so many workshops, I refuse to count how many pieces have been thrown to the wolves, chewed up, and spat back at me. In my first workshop, no one told me what wasn't working, and no one delved into the topic of race/culture that was thread through my piece. It's been 8 weeks since that workshop, and I still am afraid to begin revising that piece because it desperately needs work, but no one (except my professor) told me. My second piece, I didn't ask any questions and just wrote down every word that was said - much better workshop. I know exactly what needs work with that second piece.

I don't know, I'm rambling. Don't be nice in workshop, don't expect people to be nice, it's not worth the money or the time. Be real. Only take things personal if someone is clearly ignorant to what they've just said, or if they clearly didn't try to explore your piece without bias. Remember that you're a good writer. If you weren't, you would have been ripped to shreds in your first workshop. Don't attack people just because they aren't you and didn't think of you while writing your piece. I've read a lot of work written by people drastically different from me and you don't see me attacking who they are in workshop... Work through it with the author during the workshop or outside of it. Don't just give it a superficial read and say you don't understand - get out of workshop if you're going to do that.

Finally, if you're going to call yourself an artist then own your craft. You're probably not going to get anywhere if you let a single workshop break you and never bounce back. No one said this was easy, and if you thought it was, get out now while there's still time. It's hard as hell, but the rewards are worth it. Fight for your right to call yourself an artist. Make awesome shit. Be a shark.

A last tip from Cristina Yang (Grey's Anatomy):

"Ugh, you make me sick. Have some fire. Be unstoppable. Be a force of nature. Be better than anyone here, and don't give a damn what anyone thinks. There are no teams here, no buddies. You're on your own. Be on your own."

 *also, find a song that makes you feel like a Boss and make that your workshop/writing song

The Fire Next Time & Between The World and Me

Song: If I Ruled The World x Nas (Feat. Lauryn Hill)

If you consider yourself an avid reader or a woke person, than I suggest you add these two books to your list. They're very short, a few hours to read each one. Make sure you have a pen to take notes and underline sentences. And if you're feeling up to it, read a little of each one aloud. You should read them in the order of publication (Baldwin first, then Coates).

I'm not going to sit here and pump any ideas into your head about either of these books and what they have to do in terms of each other besides that they work together and once you've read them both, you can interpret if it's as a response, a continuation, an argument, etc. But, these are two of the most influential nonfiction books I have read this year and they are both culturally relevant to the times and very fresh perspectives to have on the US and the "American Dream."

Honestly, I feel like a more complete person after reading both of these books and I feel like I know how I should be living life when it comes to the terribleness that is happening all around us nowadays. Just read them, you don't have to thank me.

Stay Woke.

Race To The Finish Line...

Song: Chandelier x B.O.B

So where have I been? With fall came a tremendous amount of work, two workshops, and only time for a single blog rant that honestly had no point besides me being upset. But right now, I have a few minutes to spare before MOFY, dinner, and returning to the mountain of homework I have to scale over the next 9 days.

The semester is coming to a close. Wild, isn't it?

As I coolly did all of my work and somehow managed to have a social life, an academic life, and get enough sleep - which never happened at Elon until I was a senior and hit hard by senioritis. I keep telling myself "I chose the MFA life" instead of it choosing me (even though it did, but you get what I mean right?). Basically, it's a constant reminder that this is a privilege and that I shouldn't take it for granted, that even when it gets rough (and trust me, I had a coexisting virus and infection this past week, so it was rough), I need to just hold my ground, do my work, and grind hard right now, so I can relax when I'm older.

I think the best part of grad school is that I'm actually working towards my passion. In undergrad, sure, I was following my passion in humanity by double majoring, but here all I have to do is write, read, and repeat. No one is pushing math into my face and expecting me to do it. It's all about the words, making sentences, getting freaky with imagery, and I love it.

I wish I was better at keeping up and running this blog, but shoutout to all of you that read this...Let me know who you are if you know me, let me know if you've read my work, if you want to collab, etc.

Look forward to a more in-depth piece about how I feel about workshops in general and the end of my race to the semester.

Oliva Pope & Her "Manufactured Privilege"

Scandal. Season 5, episode 4: "Dog-Whistle Politics"

A Rant --

So, I was watching Scandal (way back in October, but for anyone reading this: I've been busy.) and this woman is explaining Olivia Pope's life and how her father made sure she had the best education and the opportunity to become queen of the world if she wanted to, and how he did terrible things and made sacrifices to get Olivia these opportunities. And the woman calls what Olivia has "manufactured privilege" and questions if she expects to be treated the same as the First Lady (long backstory here - so either watch Scandal or go with it).

And this is the moment that I texted my best friend on whether or not I should be offended that this woman just said that Olivia's privilege (in life, mind you) is "manufactured." We both agreed that I should have been offended. And as I sat there, Scandal continuing to run in the background, I couldn't help but wonder if people thought the same of me. If my privilege wasn't equal to the privilege of a white man or woman because I had to work harder to get it, because I wasn't born with it? If so, does that mean I will never be able to make it in life, that everything I do will just be one inch less than what people with real privilege and real opportunity? Will I never get the respect and props I deserve for my work? Or will I constantly be seen as underrated, or worse, overrated because of my "manufactured privilege?" And overall, there is the trickiness of me having to contemplate if my awesome education means that my privilege is manufactured because of my skin tone and my SES and my roots?

I don't have any answers. Of course, as I sit here, I'm like no, my privilege is earned and well-deserved. Anyways, that's my rant.

For more, see here: http://www.baltimoresun.com/entertainment/bthesite/tv-lust/bal-scandal-recap-dog-whistle-politics-20151016-story.html

Ohioana Book Awards 2015

Song:  Now or Never x Kendrick Lamar Feat. Mary J. Blige

I was a well-read child, courtesy of my mother who surrounded me with children's literature before I could actually read and began teaching me. I don't even remember learning how to read, really, I just know that once I was in kindergarten, I could read. In fact, even as the only black student, I was one of the three students allowed to walk to the library alone (it was in a separate building) and I would spend my time there, hidden in the maze of shelves, sitting on a tiny bench, stacking up children's books around me as I read them instead of checking them out. Have you ever finished a book in the library or bookstore? You pick it up, thinking you'll only read the first few pages, maybe a chapter, and then you'll buy it, take it home, snuggle up beneath your blanket and swallow up the words every night. But then you look up and it's been hours, you're in the middle of the book, so you have two choices: waste your money and take home a book you're almost done with, stay and finish it, or finish the chapter and come back the next day to finish the book. Some people go to Barnes & Noble to write or drink coffee or buy books, and some people go there and read.

Anyways, I was well-read, which evolved into being well-written. Well-written in all subjects. In 5th grade, I wrote a great narrative about a slice of pepperoni pizza and it's journey through the digestive system. In college, I successfully argued for convergence evolution of cannibalism in birds of prey, big cats, and pinnipeds - the only A I got in my comparative vertebrate structure and function in class. I liked to write, anything, I loved creating. So, I always knew I'd be an English-creative writing major when I decided to go to college. Everyone said I would change my major - and I did, I switched my psychology minor and pre-med biology major for a psychology major, a minor in neuroscience and an almost biology minor. I finessed my four years of college and double majors to include general studies courses that focused on writing, literature, narrative, or aspects of each. I'm working on making a future of blending psychology and writing.

So here I am, in graduate school, getting an MFA in Creative Nonfiction. I've been published. And most recently, I've been awarded. The Ohioana Book Awards' Walter Rumsey Marvin Grant, awarded to a writer under thirty who hasn't published a book and shows great potential. We had a beautiful ceremony at the Ohio Statehouse, and I gave a speech (along with the other winners) and then participated in a roundtable discussion on writing with all of the winners. This award has been the beginning or recognition for several authors who have gone on to win book awards and Pulitzer prizes. I won this award and it was a much bigger deal than I had thought it was, like this award is the kick-off for writing careers and authors that go on into the future to just slay the game and I won! Still surreal. Anyways, on top of receiving this award, I also found out that at 22 (I was actually 21 when I was notified of my award), I am the youngest recipient of this award, beating the previous youngest winner by 4 (but actually 5) years.

Mama, we made it. If you're interested, you can watch the ceremony here and the excerpt that was included in the Fall 2015 Ohioana Quarterly was my essay, What Will Follow about my life after the death of my father in 2002. It meant so much for me to be able to represent Ohio and the literary world of creative nonfiction by winning this award. If you know me, you know that I'm a proud Buckeye, even though my education has taken me to places outside of Columbus, Ohio, but we all know that it all began there, in a little green house on Bretton Pl.

#WhereIsJa

Song: I'm Real x Ja Rule Feat. Jennifer Lopez

So, grad school isn't just sitting in one's room doing work 24/7 and it's definitely not writing everyday, so whoever believes that real writers have to write everyday, I send you to Not Writing by Anne Boyer who perfectly explains the writer's lifestyle.

In my time of not writing, I found out that Ja Rule would be in Chicago. That's correct: Ja Rule, Mr. What's My Mother****ing Name? R U L E, Mr. Murder Inc., Mr. My career was destroyed by Eminem during its peak and I haven't been able to bounce back since and also brought down Ashanti with me. Yes. Him. So of course, I must go see the man whose CD Pain Is Love played in my mother's 2003 Trailblazer on my way to the bus stop. The man who got me through late nights in college by making appearances on my 90s/2000s Pandora station with rare versions of some of those songs I listened to as a child. And when I found out it was $3, I went to workshop and told my entire class about the concert and RSVP'd.

I took a train and a bus to get to the venue at 6:45 for an 8 o clock show. I had 2 Dirty Shirley's (an alcoholic Shirley Temple) and a pretzel with beer cheese (if you haven't had beer cheese - NC has the best beer cheese). Two people from my cohort came to enjoy Ja Rule with me and while we spent hours standing in the the "third/fourth row" of the club, listening to suburban Chicago rappers, followed by Texan rappers, and in between all of that we had DJ Oreo and DJ Elz killing the turn-up game (usually I hate DJs because I don't anything they played, but they included a nice mix of 90s/2000s music so I was in my zone) and we waited for Ja.

Something random, but this night reaffirmed once again that Chicago is the place for me because CHICAGO LOVES KANYE and I LOVE KANYE and so we can be just one big YEEZUS loving family.

Anyways, at 11 o clock, after a shot of tequila that quickly wore off with the playing of DMX and Back That Ass Up and This Is How We Do It and Back to Back, on and on, and while falling asleep on my feet and not trying to hide my yawns, Ja Rule finally comes out on stage. At this point I have lost both members of my cohort, having been separated by grinding couples, too young to actually know Ja, but I'm enjoying the show because this is Ja Rule and he looks exactly the same. I'm videotaping this entire show, screaming the lyrics with all of these people, holding my camera up in one very tired arm while the men surrounding me are all sharing the smallest roach I've ever seen and thinking they're being discreet - just FYI smoking marijuana in public is not discreet, it has a very distinct smell, so... - and I'm falling in love with Ja all over again. I leave after Ja performed all of my favorites (40 minutes in, Jah Bless), pushing my way out of the hottest crowd I've ever found myself in, and I grab a water while I request an Uber.

The Uber guy and I talk about rap (he was a 50 Cent fan, and of course in 2001 a Dre fan) and we talk about rap battles, so Ether, Jay-Z and Nas, Meek Mill and Drake, and all the while home I am distracted from the overwhelming amounts of homework that I put off for Ja. I slink up to my apartment, exhausted and ready to get out my little ratchet-basic outfit, and prepare myself to wake up in 7 hours to do 4 dense readings and a reading response before my noon class.

But it was all worth it. Sometimes you just have to do it for Ja. (If you don't know what "Where is Ja?" means here.)

With Classes Comes Writing...

Song: The Bloom (ABG 3) x Wale Feat. Stokley Williams

My workshop professor is buds with two of my favorite authors. I found that out while I chatted with them over their cigarette during orientations. Honestly, I think my workshop professor is the coolest professor out there and I've had some pretty great creative writing instructors and they've definitely made the top 5. T is a genius.

T epitomizes why Columbia appealed to me. They want us to hybridize and explore our nonfiction, breaking boundaries on and off the page, because there is no "right" way to write CNF. So we're reading and writing and writing what we're reading, reading what we're writing, and exploring how far we can push, press, and mold this genre into our own. I'm into it. Mainly because whenever I write something short it's this poem-essay hybrid thing and I submit to magazines calling it a "poem-essay hybrid thing" and that doesn't seem the most professional to me, but it's the best I can do at the moment.

I like my essays to have the lyricism and rhythm of poetry, while being formatted as an essay. I'm a long-winded writer and speaker, I can go on for ages bouncing from subject to subject, threading every story together and that's exactly how I write. When drafting, I'm an overwriter, which is better than being an underwriter because for me it's always about where to reduce and which parts to remove and not that much of what's missing and this should be added. I like drafting - does that make me weird? - it's nice to watch this amorphous glob of letters become something after working over it for a really long time.

When I started classes, I was really worried I wouldn't have anything to write about, but for me, being in class really inspires me to write about topics bigger than myself, or about things that aren't focused solely on a single aspect of my life. Since I don't have classes on Tuesdays, I just write because I don't have much else to do (sometimes I do my homework, sometimes I just write), so I have like 4 different essays cooking right now. I have an essay on religion in the works (that probably won't be finished for a year or at least a few months - needs some research), another one on hair, one on recklessness, and one about character portraits. But of course, these are all in the works, so something to be excited about, but not too excited about.

What's wild to me is that there are first year students here who know their thesis or have an idea of what they want to do, and I'm just sitting here, two weeks into classes, lollygagging about trying to write and explore and take my time. Nonfiction is so broad and everyone is interested in so many different things that I've come across a lot of different perspectives and narratives in workshop and it's nice not to be hit with mass amounts of essays on running or why people are writers... Fortunately, I was blessed with a diverse cohort *applause* and faculty.

This school, this city...everyone is just so cool and I've somehow managed to slip my way in without seeming too uncool compared to everyone else. At first it was intimidating, but now I'm starting to feel the cool vibes and it's not so hard to fit in.

Mixers, Mingling, & Mattresses

Song: Amazing - Kanye West Feat. Jeezy

In case you missed it - I like to call myself a writer, I even have it tattooed, so I guess it's legit enough. I write mainly Creative Nonfiction (CNF) and I've developed my own sort of style of writing over the past few years, I tend towards the more lyrical side but also the raw.  Anyways, I came to this city to get my MFA in Creative Nonfiction, and that's the plan for the next three years if this first one goes smoothly.

On the first day of classes (for everyone else) and the eve of my first class, I find myself excited for - dare I say it - workshop. I'm excited because I've been socially motivated enough to trek down to the loop and attend orientations, mixers, and events and in doing so, I've met and bonded with a ton of people from my cohort and the other programs, which has gotten me excited to start another academic journey.

GSI Instructor Orientation - My roommate and I get up super early and dazzled ourselves for our first event as graduate students. And if you're curious on how a graduate student should dress, feel free to check my Pinterest style page, but really it's all about staple fashion items, personality, comfort, and confidence. Anyways, we take the Blue Line down to the Loop and enter "The Moose Building" - that's what I'll call it. We're early so we end up scoping out the educational floor and trying to get into our graduate lounge without any success. People trickle in and no one talks to anyone until the professors decide to ask us all where we're from and follow up our awkward introductions with an ice breaker (the one where you're forced to mingle and then that person introduces you to the class...yeah). We get the low down on how we will be instructed on being instructors of first-year English/rhetoric classes, and personally, because my awkward-self loves to teach people (any of my BtB students reading this?), I'm excited for the opportunity. The few CNF students in the orientation group up and we hover in front of the door, trading schedules and figuring out who's in which class.

There's another orientation for the entire Creative Writing MFA program after that one, so some of us go hang out in the graduate lounge. Something I love about talking with people passionate about writing is that anything goes, everyone's stories are always relevant no matter the topic. So, we trade stories, talk about the program, ask each other questions, joke around, all that stuff that level 10 minglers are good at (I'm a level 3.5 if you were wondering)...This little group of MFA students we've created ends up sauntering down the street to Harold's Chicken, which is apparently some of the best fried chicken in the nation, and eight of us squeeze into two booths and sit for an hour socializing over fried food. All I have to say here is: catfish nuggets.

CWD MFA Orientation - Attention t-t-t-teachers and students: I find myself in a room full of professors and a few more students than earlier. As the professors introduce themselves, tell us what they teach, what kind of writing they specialize in, and what they've recently published, they constantly remind us that we have picked the best time to enter this program: exciting things are happening. A sort of electricity buzzes through the room with how excited these professors are about the upcoming year and our incoming cohorts and one can't help but start to feel it too. We're split into groups by concentration, so there are 3 CNF students and 3 CNF professors in one small room. We go through this uninteresting packet about the program, but I'm more interested in the way my professors seem to bounce back and forth off of each others, the rhythm weaving its way between them: the soft spoken, but intense one; the hyper, but thoughtful one; and the quiet, but aware one. They tell us there's 9 in our cohort, which is apparently a good size, and they continue to encourage us to take classes outside of CNF and to participate in events put on by programs outside of creative writing.

GSO Mixer - I arrive at the mixer an hour before it starts and order my favorite: a mango margarita, and glad I did because liquor was not on the drink ticket. So, feeling my margarita, I wander into the other side of the bar and sit at a table alone. Again, I'm not the best mingler, so I'd rather people approach me and start talking (of course RBF makes this a little difficult, but...). A second-year from Music and Management talks to me, telling me all about what it was like for her first year and what she does around the college/city, and then she floats around. My graduate ambassador sits down with me and asks me about myself, but I don't really know what to say, like what am I supposed to tell her?

Hi, my name is Negesti and I don't really do much besides work and learn, sometimes I have fun, but most nights my education keeps me warm.

How about no. But fortunately, she brings over more people from our program. A girl I haven't met and a guy I met earlier and the three of us spend the rest of the mixer sitting at this table talking about randomness and mingling with anyone who stops by our table to greet us. All in all, it's a good time, but I have to reject an invite to an after-mixer bar gathering because I'm still carrying catfish nuggets, my bag, and desperately need to get home to nurse an impending ear infection. I gain a few twitter followers and walk to the Blue Line alone.

Other things I did to mingle with people - I helped decorate the new creative writing graduate lounge, and after awkwardly writing: "One does not simply sit down and write" (based on a meme) and "Self-promotion is not frowned upon here:" I meet more second-year students from the fiction and poetry programs, while also being reacquainted with some of the first years I've already met. I went to convocation (and the grad student coffee prior to it) and the beliefs about how weird and eccentric this school is were confirmed by the hordes of freshmen screaming "HELL YEAH! HELL YEAH!" at the ceremony and the DJ who proceeded to kill the beat as everyone raced down to gather free stuff. Not going to lie, I was told I could grab the free stuff too, but being short and young made it so that no one asked any questions as I procured every item possible, and the only time I revealed my "year" was while signing up for make-up/special fx club, to which they responded: "As long as you know shit about make-up, we don't care!"

And outside of all of these events, I have begun to develop real, legitimate, healthy relationships with people in and out of my cohort and I'm loving it. Sitting and talking for hours about whatever - writing relevant or not - and getting coffee/meals, making plans...it's exciting.

So, on this eve of the beginning of my graduate student career, on this day which most likely begins the next three years of my life, I received my mattress. Rolled up went the air mattress I've been calling my bed for two and a half weeks, and gently laid on my hardwood floor was a brand new mattress. This is a really big moment for me because an air mattress is not the most comfortable thing in the world, it was cool for two weeks, but these last three...? Anyways, look at me doing adult things and figuring out this life!

I've got my textbooks. I've got fresh composition notebooks. And I've got a ton of pens. Now to pick out which excerpts to read for my workshop tomorrow morning as an introduction to myself...

The Girl In The Back Of My Head - I Hate Her

Song: Dark Times x The Weeknd Feat. Ed Sheeran

Saturday was the first time I cried in Chicago. I guess I should be proud of making it more than a week, but I'm not. Where do I begin? On Friday, I started to feel an ear infection coming on, so after a painful night of sleep, I put on a sweatshirt, some leggings and ventured to the nearest urgent care facility. This place was almost 2 miles away, but I didn't think the walk would be that bad, being that it was a straight shot. So, it takes me about an hour to walk to this place and I'm dripping with sweat, my Elon sweatshirt clinging to my back because I'm so hot and my feet are killing me from being suffocated in rain boots for so long, but I made it, so I check in and everything goes great because I was right: I did/do have an ear infection. I tell my really cute doctor to just send the prescription to the pharmacy down the street, I'll pick it up, hop on the train and ride all the way back home. I go to this fancy Walgreens: 3 floors, escalators, really clean - the whole deal. And I'm amazed that a Walgreens can look like this, but since I've walked 2 neighborhoods away and found myself in Wicker Park, where a lot of things seem to be fancy and its overcrowded with salons, I can only assume this is normal in Chicago. This pharmacist tells me that he has given me more than I was prescribed, which he thought wouldn't be a big deal, but it has bumped my prescription for ear drops to $110 - ear drops! So we go back and forth, me shocked at the price, him trying to figure out where to send it, so finally I tell him I'll call him, avoiding his eye at the misfortune of my life of getting sick and having to pay over $100 for a tiny bottle of ear drops, and I run out of the obnoxious store before I end up crying in public.

I see the blue line sign, so I walk towards it, frustrated and in pain, and I see a sign: BEST DONUTS IN CHICAGO. Keep walking, you can't afford a donut, but still, I turn around and dig in my purse for the little bit of cash I have somehow managed to hold onto and flirt with the donut guy, talking about Columbus (he was just there) and what foods to eat there, and I leave with 3 glamorous donuts. I Blue Line it home, thinking that the only way this could get worse would be if someone was going to rob me for my donuts, my phone, my change purse, etc and imagining the breakdown that would ensue, the swearing, the violent attack on the imagined criminal with my umbrella, and the eventual sobbing of losing my possessions. Fortunately, my donuts and I made it home, beating the rain, and in my empty apartment (my roommate gone for the weekend) the pitiful sobbing began.

Overwhelmed, frustrated, broke and in pain, all I could ask myself was: should I have come to Chicago or should I have just stayed in Ohio?

I like to pride myself on my spontaneity and trusting that fate/life/God will guide me in the right direction when it comes down to it, but Chicago was a last minute decision. A non-refundable deposit I put down because I wanted to get an MFA and further my learning and career. So far, there have been a lot of things that should have made me back out and not move here, but I did it anyway, trusting that this is the right move - the only move that would make sense, and yet still, Chicago has shown me very little reception. Sure, I've done a few things and met a few people and gone a few places, but there is a nagging girl with relaxed hair smoking a cigarette in the back of my brain and she crushes the butt with her dirty Sperry before telling me that I did the wrong thing. I hate that girl, it's okay, it's a mutual feeling. And I want to prove her wrong. I didn't come to a city where I knew no one to go to a school I knew very little about to end up feeling bad about myself and unworthy of the artists this city has nurtured. I came here to learn and make art, so I will suffer these awkward beginning months and hopefully by the brutal winter, this city will have learned that I'm here to stay for the next three years (at least), so they better get used to it.

A Forty Minute Commute

Song: It Won't Be Long Now - Original Cast Recording x In The Heights

So, my second day in Chicago, I set out by myself to go to campus and pick up my campus card. One of the questions people always ask me about moving to Chicago is if I live close to campus. The answer is no. Far from it, actually. I live in Logan Square and campus is in The Loop (Downtown) and to get there I have two (really, one, but I'll amuse you) options: walk for two and a half hours (which at my sauntering pace would be more like 4) or walk to the train station, hop on a train, and walk from the closest stop to campus. Guess which one I chose?

My El train route is the Blue Line, which goes west to east to west in a nice curve, meeting at the loop with all of the other trains in the middle. So, I walk to this train station, trying to look cool and like I didn't just move here less than 24 hours ago, and I realize I have no idea where to pick up a train card, etc. All of these Chicago natives stop at this machine, there's a lot of beeping, they walk away and slide through the entrance to the trains. I'm thinking, maybe there's an office with a nice lady who will give me the card, ask me how much money I'd like to put on it, and then point me towards the trains - nope, there's just a machine. A few people look at me weird as I hover in front of this machine and closely read the directions before doing anything. Five minutes later, I've got a nice little silver credit card looking Ventra pass and proceed to slide on through to the stairs for the train. I notice that there's only an escalator for the passengers leaving the station - weird, but what do I know? When I get down to the train's level, there are two stations presented to me as options and neither of them are the place I want to go. I watch one train come and go before deciding to sit down and figure out (again) exactly which train to get on. Another train comes, creating its own little breeze, a few people sit on the bench with me, and then it leaves. Another train. It turns out these options are the first and last stop of the Blue Line - I need to get on the train that left when I got here, so I wait anxiously, standing up earlier than necessary to make sure I can look at the train cars before getting in one (tips: don't get on empty train cars and try not to get on overcrowded ones). I get on this train and the Ohioan in me asks a girl, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

No response. I sit, checking my map periodically, keeping my music low, so I can hear the train stations being announced, and debating on which stop to get off to be the closest to where I need to go. We go from being underground to up in the air, riding past the wonderful architecture and street art of Chicago, going through different neighborhoods, train stops, people coming and going. Nine stops (twenty-ish minutes) to the one I need to get off at, and I slide off that train in the bossest manner I can conjure up and just start walking to get back above ground.

When I get above ground, I have no idea where I am, which direction to go, etc, so I pull up my map and before it can figure out where I need to go, I just start walking. I hate crossing streets, and Chicago hasn't helped that fear. In this city, pedestrians can have the right of way crossing a street when it has no stop signs or stoplights and everyone honks all of the time and people are impatient, but people say these are the sanest drivers, so what's a girl to do? So, I'm walking, listening to directions from Siri in my head, and talking to my friend on the phone, and it takes me twenty minutes to finally reach Michigan Avenue from LaSalle.

Even my friend from Chicago told me: Siri will become your best friend trying to navigate this place.

Walking around The Loop, I realized two things:

1. This place is big as WOAH.
2. This place is beautiful and doesn't smell bad.

A Poetic Introduction

Song: Gypsy - Lady Gaga

Four years ago, around this time, I got into a car with my mom and aunt, said goodbye to my sister, and proceeded to drive down to Elon, North Carolina. I'd never been there, until that point, I'd only seen photos of its beauty and gorgeous fountains, gardens, and buildings on the internet. My friends had been and they all said the same: "It's beautiful, you'll love it." So of course, I got in and me calling upon the reckless, thrill-seeking, risk-taking girl inside, I went down to this small southern town and hoped for the best. I had seen my roommate via Facebook and I had friended/or been friended by the majority of the people in my building. I moved in, my family left me, and I was left to fend for myself, figure out the college lifestyle and make it work. I could have hated it, but I ended up spending the next four years in Elon, loving every single second of it.

Here I am again. Four days ago, I hugged my mom and sister, told them I loved them and walked away to my apartment building, up the three flights to my apartment, and attempted to get to know my roommate (who I had until that point, only known via email and Facebook). I didn't bring anything with me besides clothes, books, bedding, school supplies and a storage bench - no furniture, no food. My mom took me to buy a few groceries, so I have that. I bought an air mattress and it's quite comfortable. I put my good luck elephant (a present from a coworker) in the window as instructed, I hung up my clothes, and then I joined my roommate for a poetry reading (she's in the poetry program). The reading was at this lowkey, edgy, used bookstore a few blocks away and upon entering, we were greeted by a dog named Ramona, whose leash-like thing (one of those things you tie dogs up to outside to let them roam around...) allowed her to explore a wide berth of the store which was full of vintage books and chapbooks and hipsters all preparing for this reading. I won't give many details of the reading: there were 6 poets all of whom were excellent, but my favorite was a writer (Kathleen Rooney) who decided that she would read a lyrical essay about Chicago (I'm biased, but still) and it was awesome, even my roommate said that was her favorite.

Eventually, I'll get furniture, and eventually I'll stop binge watching Netflix and surfing the internet for things to buy to survive the Chicago winter (it's never too early). Soon, I'll start writing essays again, because I haven't written that much this summer, but instead have been more focused on getting previously written pieces published and have achieved a moderate level of success (yay for online publications!). But for now, I'm just trying to get the feel of being here alone - it's almost surreal that I have permanently moved from Ohio. This adulting thing is weird, but so am I, and Chicago is too (lowkey).

The Origins of Gesterbear

Song: Welcome Back - Mase

Welcome to my blog: Midwestern Rambling. I'm trying out this blogging thing again for those of you who have had access to and/or read any of my previous blogs. But this one has a purpose: my ventures in Chicago.

A little bit about me: My name is Negesti Kaudo and I'm twenty-two years old. I am a born and raised Ohioan and I, of course, bleed scarlet and gray. A recent college graduate of Elon University, I have Bachelor's of Arts in both English - Creative Writing and Psychology. My academic interests are an interesting combination of the two by focusing on human nature and condition, so basically: I want to know why we do the things we do. What else? I'm a writer, an amateur astrologist, and a pessimist. Last week, I packed all of my stuff into a minivan and my mom, sister, and I all traveled from Columbus, OH to Chicago, IL at 6am and I moved into a tiny apartment. Now I'm here, gearing up for my first year of graduate school for an MFA in Creative Writing Nonfiction, and the current plan is to be in Chicago for at least three years.

A little bit about the blog: That bear in the background is a Gesterbear, and she is by far one of my favorite graduation presents I received (and he sings!). Gesterbear is a nickname I received from my best friend on a trip to Chicago way back when in like 8th grade (can't be sure). Anyways, I hated the nickname, and got in trouble on an escalator for pushing my friend - she thought it was cute, I thought it was mortifying. Everyone called me Gesterbear (-____-) including my teachers and I couldn't stand it until one day, a girl in my class drew a Gesterbear: a teddy bear with dreadlock pigtails, an Oxford blouse, a red bowtie and a MacEwen plaid skirt. I loved it and continue to. Since then, Gesterbear has evolved: she cut off her dreadlocks and now has a nice kinky-culy fro, she burned her MacEwen plaid skirt and Oxford, etc... This blog is the one thing I have to chronicle my time and life in Chicago as I go through graduate school and transition into adulthood. I'll post about school, my writing, my explorations, and anything else I feel like.

Welcome to my world.

Disclaimer: I'm a nonfiction writer, so if you feel that our current relationship is nice where it is, I discourage you from reading my work because you may learn things about me that you could have survived without. I write raw, which means graphic, real, explicit, and I don't hold back. A lot of my work is sexual, so there's also that. This is a no judgment zone, and those who are guilty of leaving negative, offensive, and altogether not constructive critique will be blocked, banned, and removed my creative space. For those of you interested, welcome to my world.